Phoenix
by Lumionessence
Summary: After a row with Ron confirms Hermione's conviction that their separation is a good thing, she's unprepared for the men who sweep in to save her, and more astonished to find that the unlikeliest of them can literally sweep her off her feet. EWE. Eventually M. Slow updates, but WILL finish.
1. Burning Cinders

**Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter are not mine, though I would happily beg for Lucius! (And I don't mean my dog, I didn't have to beg for him, and yes, my dog's name is Lucius).**

 **AN: This is my first foray into the HP world of writing, so I pray you don't judge me too harshly. This is not beta read, so if there is something glaringly out of place (and I'm certain there is), please feel free to PM me. Suggestions and concrit are kindly received if kindly given. I wasn't going to post this until it was finished, but I thought to see if it was worth continuing and if I'm at least in the right ballpark. I do hope you enjoy my meager offering.**

 **I am also taking suggestions for a proper title as titles are my bane. *lol* Well, without further ado...**

 **.**

 **.**

Chapter 1: "Burning Cinders"

 _"In order to rise  
From its own ashes  
A phoenix  
First  
Must  
Burn."_

― Octavia E. Butler

Hermione stood stiffly in a darkened alcove, trying desperately to divert attention away from herself. She knew those in closest proximity had witnessed the barely hissed argument between Ron and herself, but more than that, Ron leaving with a bright red handprint across his cheek and another witch on his arm had drawn more attention than she thought she could abide. She was certain the _Prophet_ would be gleefully spouting the story of their separation to the public by morning, something they had managed to keep strictly under wraps until now. The wizarding gossip mongers would surely love nothing more than to sink their teeth into the story and speculate how their falling out would affect the dynamics between "The Golden Trio" now that the cat was so spectacularly out of the bag.

She was equally mortified that she'd let her emotions get the best of her at all, but at a social event? Even more humiliating, at a charity benefit held at—ironically—none other than Malfoy Manor. She'd almost laughed aloud when she received the invitation to be a guest speaker, but the ensuing onset of trepidation resulting from the location had effectively snuffed the urge. With trembling fingers, she'd screwed up her Gryffindor courage and owled her acceptance.

The purpose of the speeches and subsequent festivities were designed to encourage the raising of funds for the continued support of children orphaned by the war, a cause she championed, and her sole reason for even considering stepping foot into the loathsome mansion once more. There were no good memories for her here, despite the apparent efforts of the Malfoy's to continue redeeming themselves and their name. However, as a leading charity supporter and post-war heroine, she had a requisite position to fulfil, even if it was self-imposed.

The nerve of that prat, she fumed silently, her thoughts coming around to bear on her current situation once more. Slinking further into the shadows of the alcove, she fought to maintain her composure. She knew she could be hot-tempered, but she had thought she'd learned to show more restraint than that. And if Ron thought inspiring her to jealousy was the way to rekindle the spark in their relationship, he was sadly mistaken. Instead, it only served to show her that, perhaps, there was nothing left in their relationship worth salvaging. The burgeoning fire she had felt for him during the war and the subsequent short handful of years following had slowly died to a few stubborn coals among the ashes. Tonight, he had effectively snuffed the last remaining embers. She thought she should feel something over it, sadness at what they no longer shared, or anger at his pathetic attempt to manipulate her. Well, she did feel anger, but not for the reasons he'd intended. She felt anger and... regret. Not regret over a relationship lost, but regret at years wasted trying to keep a semblance of their relationship alive. She was stubborn that way; it was not in her nature to just give up without a fight. Perhaps that was the Gryffindor in her. Perhaps if he'd ever tried _romancing_ her instead...

Hermione shook her head.

No.

Ron didn't have a romantic bone in his body. His charm was superficial and woefully one-dimensional when it came to her. She'd found it sort of sweet once, but as time wore on, she began to feel more suffocated by it than charmed. She leant back against the wall, her downcast eyes taking in the vibrant crimson of her Muggle evening gown. Red... the colour of love...or rage, she mused. How ironic. Both were acclaimed emotions with a strong basis in passion, but she'd never felt the intensity in the former that she presently did in the latter. That kind of fervour had never existed in her relationship with Ron. In fact, beyond the ardour of lust found in the first blush of new love, she wasn't sure it existed at all. Maybe that was why romance novels were written in such profuse abundance, as a way to bring the fantasy to life for hundreds of souls seeking to satisfy that elusive connection in their mundane relationships.

She picked at the material of her gown. Knowing the calibre of the guests that a social function orchestrated by the wealthy family was likely to draw, she'd done some serious fashion research and then shopped specifically for this event. She'd ended up with a simple, but stylish piece. Never one to be too ostentatious, she was satisfied with her final selection. The floor length gown she'd chosen boasted no sparkling adornments but was a deep and vibrant hue of crimson, the halter-top plunging into a daring V between the swell of her breasts to be arrested by a sash of burnished gold. Made of a rich, voluptuous satin that hugged her torso and fell in a gossamer cascade from her waist, it also boasted a decadent chiffon overlay that swirled behind her like waves cresting on a blood red ocean, and when she moved, it revealed a provocative slit in the side that soared nearly up to mid-thigh. Coupled with an elegant chignon, some strategically placed curls, and a pair of matching opera length gloves, the total effect was that the empire styled gown made her feel beautiful, confident; the proverbial Cinderella going to the ball instead of the sacrificial lamb returning to the altar of its once near-demise.

She was certain that her feelings about the manor would never change, no matter how many pretty garlands were strung from its rafters. She had seen with her own eyes the darkness that had once dwelled here, now hidden behind the gaiety. And now, more than ever, she wished midnight would strike the hour and end the nightmare her evening had become. She was only thankful that speeches had been spoken, the banquet indulged, and the function had moved into the ballroom proper for social intermingling and entertainment. A light touch on her arm startled her out of her dark musings.

"Are you okay, Hermione?"

She looked up into the worried eyes of her dearest friend, Harry. "Yeah, I'll be all right, for tonight at least. Who knows about tomorrow?" she shrugged.

He nodded, his brow furrowed in concern. "Here, I thought you might like a drink," he said, handing her one of the two flutes of champagne he held.

"Thank you, Harry, that was very thoughtful of you," she responded quietly, taking a small sip of the fizzy, golden liquid. The effervescence of the champagne was entirely too cheery as it danced over her tongue, she thought, somewhat uncharitably.

Harry seemed to vacillate over what to say to her next, his expression one of uncertain consideration. "I know now isn't the appropriate time," he finally said, his voice pitched for her ears only, "but if you want to talk, I'm here for you, Hermione."

"I know," she gave him a small smile. "I think I just need to get through this night and then get away for a bit."

The look he gave her was questioning, but he said nothing. Hermione could clearly read the silence as if he'd spoken aloud, however.

"Don't worry, Harry, nothing so drastic. I still have my dignity. I was thinking maybe it's time I took a holiday, that's all. Spend some time rethinking the direction my life is taking while all this blows over." She made a vague gesture toward the general vicinity of the main room.

"Of course, Hermione, that sounds like a sensible plan," but his tone belied his uncertainty as he placed his hand on her arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

She sighed. Despite his well-meaning intentions, she really just wanted to be alone. "Look, I'll talk to you later, all right? I promise. But if you don't mind, I think I'm going to finish this glass of champagne and find a way to gracefully exit this nightmare."

Harry nodded at her as she excused herself from his company, his demeanour clearly one of the sympathetic friend. She'd barely made it thirty paces along the wall from the alcove before she felt the brush of fingertips along her upper arm. With fire flashing in her eyes, she spun around to meet the pale, ice blue eyes of Draco Malfoy.

"Everything all right, Granger?"

She gave him a twisted smile that bordered on the edges of being a sneer. Even though they had not attended Hogwart's for several years now and she had since married, the younger Malfoy male had never ceased calling her by her maiden name—not that she had more contact with him than was absolutely necessary. Somehow, the Malfoy men invariably participated in many of the same committees and fundraisers she did, and while they still kept to themselves with that characteristic insouciance that seemed bred into the pureblood families, their circles had crossed paths more often than she'd thought would be possible after the war. She had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that they did seem sincere in their stance to reconcile with the community, either by donating to—or outright funding—many of the post-war charities that had sprung up afterwards to rebuild the school and support the children of those families they had helped to destroy.

Hermione saw it as an underhanded attempt to make wizarding Britain beholden to the wealthy family once more. A hidden agenda that wouldn't be revealed until they were ready to step back into politics and ultimately clear their name. Where every galleon they'd spent in "charity" would curry favours carefully nurtured to return some sort of political dispensation from within the Ministry.

"Sure, Draco. As I'm sure you have seen, everything is just dandy, isn't it?" her tone was caustic.

Cool amusement lit his eyes at her response, but her sarcasm didn't ruffle him. "As you say, Granger, but my father would be terribly disappointed in my abilities as a host if I didn't make myself available to offer you a moment's reprieve away from prying eyes and ears." He looked pointedly at a pair of older witches who were trying to mask their obvious interest in their exchange. Realising they'd been caught, they hurriedly shuffled into the crowd.

Hermione huffed and took a sip of her champagne. "Your offer is kind, Draco, but I think it would be best if I just called it an evening."

Draco cocked his head at her. "How unlike a Gryffindor to run away at the first sign of trouble."

Hermione bristled, then seeing the smirk on his arrogant face, realised he was baiting her and relaxed. "I call it a tactical retreat. And besides, wouldn't a 'reprieve' also be considered running away?"

"Perhaps, though I would consider it more along the lines of regrouping with the intent to return."

"Doesn't that sound an awful lot like _'he who fights and runs away will live to fight another day?_ '"

He gave her a sly smile. "Depends on your definition of 'tactical retreat,' Granger. Though similar in nature, a reprieve suggests a brief rest, whereas, a retreat is usually defined by a complete withdrawal." He held out his hand to her, palm up, a clear invitation to join him.

"I guess you would know," she replied somewhat snidely, staring at his hand as though it might bite. She really didn't have any particular reason to be civil to him beyond the fact that he was one of the hosts for the evening's event. In fact, this was probably the most they'd spoken to each other in years, and she saw no reason to be more polite than necessary. A difficult task, given their history. She was wary of his magnanimity, still trying to figure out what sort of angle he was getting out of being overtly nice to her. General publicity, perhaps? A chance to cash in on her public humiliation and be the hero?

As if he could see the wheels turning in her head, Draco rolled his eyes at her. "Don't get your feathers in a tizzy, Granger. Think of it like this: talk is unavoidable, but if they are going to talk, then at least give them something to _really_ talk about. Or has that Gryffindor courage you're known for finally deserted you?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at him. He was starting to sound a lot like his father, and she'd had far more dealings with _him_ in her charity work than she liked. _Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, after all_ , she mused. Taking another sip of her champagne, she realised that it was now nearly gone, and in the same instant, that she had apparently decided to throw caution to the wind as she placed her hand in his. Ignoring the brief flash of triumph in his eyes, she allowed him to draw her alongside him. Belatedly, she realised she had no idea where he intended for her to take her 'reprieve.'

As it turned out, Draco was the perfect gentleman. She wasn't sure what surprised her more, the fact that he was being perfectly amenable to her, or the fact that he'd shown any interest in her well-being at all. Perhaps he'd just wanted to remove her from the scene lest the residual aura of her row with Ron cause more damage to the atmosphere than it already had. Whatever his true motives, he'd drawn her hand through his arm, curled her fingers over the crook of his elbow, and when he'd felt her tense, given her a sardonic tilt of his brow that was so reminiscent of his father, she'd felt momentarily paralysed. Some things, regardless of present and past attempts at reparation, she wasn't sure she would ever be able to overcome, and the idiosyncratic expressions of Lucius Malfoy was one of them, even if she'd brought herself to step into his accursed home. She'd drawn a deep breath, and when Draco felt her relax, began to move her toward the edge of the room where the doors that led to the inner sanctum of the manor stood.

He did not hurry their pace, however, but instead kept up a slow progression of movement with her at his side as he socialised among the crowd. He didn't seem in any hurry to whisk her out of the room, and she was forced to re-evaluate her initial perception of his motives. Glancing at him from time to time out of the corner of her eye, she took note of the fact that he seemed perfectly relaxed; her presence didn't appear to affect him at all. _But, why would it?_ she thought. Even if she did embody everything his family abhorred, _he_ was the one who subjected her to this, not the other way around. And, surprisingly, rather than looking aggrieved by the situation, he seemed quite...sedate about it. But then, it wouldn't do for him to appear piqued in such a social situation, either. Wouldn't want to risk tarnishing the family name any more than it had already suffered, or ruin what polishing had already been achieved toward rehabilitating it since.

Attempting to quash her less than charitable thoughts on Malfoyistic overtures, she took to watching the crowd of people that inevitably swirled around them, gauging their reactions. The looks she received being on the arm of the younger Malfoy did not go unnoticed—she'd have to be blind not to see—but in the face of their clear bewilderment, she held her composure steady. She smiled coyly at those who looked on with curious interest, boldly met the eyes of those who failed to adequately hide their disapproval, and engaged in nominal pleasantries when it was expected of her. When she finished her champagne during one such encounter, Draco had casually replaced her flute with another in a motion so smooth she nearly missed it. She frowned slightly at the realisation that she was completely at ease in his presence, as if they had been long-time friends and not once-bitter enemies. She was briefly reminded of one of her favourite childhood cartoons, _The Jungle Book_ , and feeling a bit like Mowgli being hypnotised in the serpentine clutches of Kaa, she had to suppress the irrational urge to giggle at the comparison.

Eventually, in the space of a few short conversations, Draco led her to an alcove that turned out to be a cleverly hidden door that opened into the dimly lit foyer outside the ballroom. Long hallways stretched to either side of them, lit by the soft glow of lanterns in elegant sconces along the walls. He turned them to his right and led her down the corridor, the click of her heels and the softer thud of his boots echoing hollowly into the air over the drifting tones of orchestral music left behind them. As they passed the door to the drawing room, she couldn't help the shiver of apprehension that coiled up her spine upon seeing it. Swallowing thickly, she noticed Draco looking at her, a glimmer of apology in his eyes when she glanced at him, and briefly, Hermione thought perhaps he might truly be sincere.

Moments later, he drew her up to a similar door along the same wall, ushering her into the darkened room and closing the door behind them. Hermione fancied she heard the click of a metal prison gate along with the soft _snick_ of the catch, giving her a slight sense of vertigo and causing her skin to prickle in response. Her hand tightened on Draco's arm as she raised her other hand, pressing the champagne flute to her forehead to allow the cool condensation to help restore her sense of equilibrium. She felt Draco reach for his wand, and a flutter of unease tickled briefly along her senses.

" _Incendio_ ," he murmured, his wand flicking toward the wall where a fire suddenly flared to life within a stately marble fireplace. As the flames took hold, a gentle, golden light was cast into the room. Her hand dropped away from his elbow as he moved into the room, lighting candles to give it a more warming atmosphere. That task done, he turned to face her. "This is the Music Room. I would have taken you to the library, but knowing you, we'd have had to send a search party just to figure out which shelf you'd burrowed yourself into."

She huffed and turned her head away from the smirk that played over his lips, crossing her arms in a show of wounded pride, but she couldn't help the upward tilt of her lips at his jibe. Even her schoolyard nemesis knew her only too well. Surprisingly, she found herself warming to his friendly, if snarky, demeanour.

Draco seemed to hesitate for a moment when she didn't immediately issue forth a returning barb, but recovering quickly, he continued. "Well, then," he turned toward the door, "you're welcome to stay in here as long as you need, Granger. I trust you can find your way back when you are ready to re-join our guests?"

She nodded, marvelling at the strange sort of peace falling between them. "Thank you, Draco, you've been very kind. Even if you are still an arse."

He smiled at her. "Careful, Granger, you sound almost...affectionate."

She snorted. "As if."

"Nevertheless, take a few moments to come to your right senses. Wouldn't want people to think you're having a change of heart."

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, biting back a less than charitable retort about former Death Eaters.

Draco smirked, obviously delighting in her reaction. "I'll leave you to it, then, Granger, but I would advise you not to take too long, or someone might have to come looking for you."

He gave a slight bow, turned and left, leaving her in a semi-stunned silence at this little revelation into his character. Hermione shook her head, awareness of her surroundings beginning to press in on her psyche.

"Bloody hell, what's got into me?" she murmured to herself as she began to look around the room.

.

.

 **Not much happening yet, just trying to set the stage, though I realize this probably reads a bit like a half dozen others. I'm not a great storyteller, and I had no intention of writing in this fandom for awhile, but this little idea that happens later kept prodding me. Please don't be afraid to let me know your thoughts.**

 **Pleasant journeys,  
~*~ Lumionessence**

* * *

 _Chapter posted 7/24/17_


	2. Tinder and Smoke

**You guys have left me completely awestruck with the amount of follows and favorites for just a single chapter. Thank you for your support! You are all amazing!**

 **But now I'm really hoping this chapter doesn't disappoint too much. I struggled with it quite a bit over the months, and I'm still not sure it's ready, but I need to move the story along. I'm sure it could probably use a bit more fine tuning, and I will likely revisit it after some feedback. I project the final outcome to be about 5 chapters total, but I needed this chapter to happen to clear out some thoughts and pave the way to the next chapter when the real fun begins to happen, so bear with me.**

.

.

Chapter 2: "Tinder and Smoke"

 _"At times there will be fire;  
This we can't avoid.  
But it's up to us to decide  
Whether it will consume  
Or it will purify." _

-Cristen Rodgers

Hermione spun in a slow circle, suddenly feeling quite alone in the quiet expanse of the richly appointed room. Her first impression when Draco had escorted her inside had been of an array of scattered furnishings backlit by the golden hue of firelight, and beyond that, a backdrop of large, nearly floor to ceiling windows draped in sheer ivory linen. Now, she saw that the aforementioned furniture was set in strategic intervals around the room, allowing for a coterie of friends and family to convene for intimate recitals or, with a simple rearrangement, a larger gathering of guests. Walking further into the room, she was now able to spare a moment to really take in the setting.

The furniture was decidedly French in style, though from what period she wasn't entirely sure. Late 19th century perhaps, she thought as she let her fingers glide over the polished wood trim of a _bergère à oreilles_ that sat close to the hearth. Taking note of the paintings and tapestries that adorned the pale walls, she concluded her supposition to be at least semi-accurate. Allowing her eyes to drift up along the ceiling, she followed the sweeping lines of crown moulding until she came to the elegant, double-tier chandelier that hung from the centre of the gently vaulted ceiling. Adorned by hundreds of tiny leaded crystals that twinkled with the flickering of the firelight, the massive fixture augmented the already illustrious opulence of the room with its own stately splendour.

Dropping her eyes back to the floor, she took note of the fanciful rugs with their intricate designs beneath the settees, the standing candelabras with their silver stems slightly dimmed by the dull patina of age, and the overall aura of majestic beauty that pervaded the atmosphere with a sense of antiquated history. It also didn't take much to discover the musical components that gave the room its name, as they were rather impressively on display. She made note of a variety of instruments, from classical strings to an entire array of wind instruments, each meticulously placed in their own niches along one wall. On closer inspection, she realised that many of those instruments were museum quality pieces, as they were quite old and obviously the predecessors to their more modern counterparts.

She shook her head. Why was she surprised?

Once again, she felt that uncharitable twinge of irritability she inevitably felt when she thought about the kind of wealth the Malfoy's possessed. It was positively obscene. But in the deep recesses of her mind, a little voice playing the devil's advocate chimed in its own thoughts about how her world views might be different had she had a similar upbringing in a place like this. Secretly, she admitted there might be some truth to that—which led her to a train of thought she hadn't previously considered, and the realisation was a spark of mutability to the tinder of her neatly packaged sentiments.

She had never before stopped to consider the lifestyle of a wealthy pureblood family. Standing in the midst of the manor's more private grandeur, she had to admit to the possibility that she was just as biased in her views as they were—or had been, and the thought shook her. She had always considered herself to be an open-minded and rather compassionate person, but Draco's behaviour had given her cause to evaluate her own perspectives, and she was uncomfortably aware that the questions her mind was now raising led her to some disturbing revelations concerning her own views.

Had their places been reversed, would she have grown up to be a completely different person based simply on wealth and familial status? As much as the thought bothered her, she couldn't deny that it was likely to some degree. In the scenario of being born into a pureblood family as Draco had, would she have even questioned whether her upbringing was right or wrong? Would she have even had a choice? And if she did, would she have found herself any more willing to change her entire outlook on life due to events beyond her control?

As unlikely as it seemed, she supposed it was possible they could have secretly harboured their true ideals in the face of their opposition, simply out of fear of retribution and destruction. Their acts of generosity since the defeat of Voldemort could certainly be attributed to their desire for absolution, but was it cowardice or dissension that had sent them running for the hills during the final battle at Hogwarts? Whatever their true feelings—whether they were changed men who had realised the folly of their beliefs, or had always been cognizant of the fact while choosing to remain hidden beneath the veneer of hate shared by their brethren—this simple fact remained: they had committed some horrendous deeds in the name of their master...hadn't they?

Hermione sighed at her inner musings. She hadn't expected the kind of reception she'd received from Draco. Though he had been brought up in the beliefs of his father's pureblood dogma, had he ever really embraced it? When she thought back to the boy he had been in school, she found that all she really saw was a boy who had been desperate to earn the acceptance of his peers, and by extension, his father's approval. Right or wrong, she had to accept that theirs had been a set way of life that extended back generations. Could she really condemn Draco for being born into that sort of entrenched bigotry?

And what of his father? She harboured no illusions about the Malfoy patriarch. She knew for a fact he believed—or had believed—in such prejudice to some extent. While she could accept that Draco had the ability to change, she found it nearly impossible to believe that Lucius Malfoy had, or could. A tiger simply couldn't change his stripes.

 _But those stripes can camouflage_ , her mind whispered.

Attempting to subvert her mind from such austere avenues of thought, Hermione turned her attention back to the room. Despite the more ostentatious instruments housed within, the manor's Music Room reminded her of the decadent grandeur typically found in historical photos, and as fascinating as she found each little discovery, what really caught her attention was the luxurious grand piano that dominated a fair portion of the main floor. Though the style of it fit with the period setting of the room, the black lacquer finish, polished to a superior shine, set it apart as more of a modern addition, causing her to briefly wonder at the difference.

Drawn to the ebony behemoth, Hermione approached it cautiously, sipping her champagne as she moved slowly around it. While it wasn't quite as large as a full concert grand, this one was significantly larger than the more modest grand pianos typically seen in such lavish homes. However, taking into consideration just who owned the manor, she couldn't say she was particularly surprised.

She stopped at the bench and let her fingers drop to the fallboard, caressing the polished surface reverently before setting her glass of champagne to the side of the music rack and gingerly taking a seat. Plagued by a moment of indecision, she ran her hands over the fallboard once more. While Ron had seemed to adore many things about her, he'd always abhorred her fondness for the more cultured and refined forms of music and artistry. She kept a piano at home, but her only real opportunities to play were while he was away at Quidditch, which she eventually learned meant he was spending his days with the team, but his nights were spent with some waifish tart in a seedy hotel room. She'd begun to suspect but had refused to acknowledge it in the hopes of being mistaken. They were supposed to be saving up toward a house where she hoped the eventual addition of children would provide the fulfilment she was craving. Until the day Lucius Malfoy had arrived to negotiate a contract with Myrna Sedgwick, the head of the Home for Displaced Women and Children. She frowned at the memory, the first of several encounters that would follow.

 _Ron was away at another match, and so she had volunteered to spend some time with the children that day. She'd been using her wand to make little paper birds fly in random patterns around a tiny group of giggling children between six and eight years of age. He had stopped briefly to watch the display until the children noticed his presence and began to titter in quiet whispers. Noticing their distraction, Hermione had given them each a cookie and sent them off to play before turning her attention to the former dark wizard._

 _"Mr Malfoy, a pleasure to see you. I trust you are well?" she had greeted him, holding her hand out in the Muggle tradition of greeting and doing her best to remain polite._

 _He'd looked down at her, an imposing figure in pristine black robes with silver threaded trim and polished footwear. Both of his hands had rested on the head of his cane, his long blond hair tied neatly at his nape with a length of black ribbon. To her surprise, he'd lifted one hand to grasp her fingers, and she'd barely suppressed the shiver of foreboding she felt at the contact of his warm fingers on hers. Then, to her further astonishment, he'd raised it, bending slightly to brush his lips over her knuckles as he would any highbrow witch. For a moment, she'd been dumbstruck by the action, held in the thrall of his grey eyes, piercing in their intensity. Before she could register the feeling it stirred within her, he'd released her hand and spoke._

 _"Quite well, Ms Weasley. May I inquire the same of you?"_

 _"I am well, thank you for asking," she'd replied, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his stare. She'd never felt more like prey, and the feeling was disconcerting._

 _He'd raised one well-groomed brow. "I must say, I find that_ most _intriguing," he'd murmured before Myrna stepped out onto the porch to greet him and take him inside, but not before he'd paused at the door, not quite looking back at her. "I wonder, Ms Weasley, if you are aware that the fox has been out chasing rabbits?"_

It would have seemed a peculiar question to anyone else, but she understood the implication behind the metaphorical question immediately. Coupled with the fact that he'd referred to her as 'Ms' rather than 'Mrs,' and she understood all too well that he was aware of what she had begun to suspect. It all registered in a flash behind dark chestnut eyes and, pinning her with his silver gaze, he'd given her a slight smirk before turning and sweeping into the house. She'd fumed at his arrogance, but she couldn't deny the truth behind his words.

It had taken her several weeks to compile enough conclusive evidence, including photos that arrived by owl one night from a private investigator she'd hired on the down-low. The photos were from a recent Quidditch match that depicted Ron kissing a little twit of a blonde and then looking furtively around. It was the nail in the coffin, so to speak, and while these findings engendered a degree of fury, she also came to the stunning realisation that she was almost glad for it. Things had become little more than routine between them, the flames long dwindled to ash, and it was merely sheer stubbornness that kept her from breaking the sedentary pattern of their relationship. Gryffindors could be tenacious.

After spending most of a weekend contemplating her future, she'd come to some final conclusions about what she wanted in her life, and the quiet fury dwindled into thoughtful repose. So, she'd quietly gone about putting her affairs in order, setting up a new apartment, her finances, and submitting paperwork for their divorce. When she was finished, she'd calmly confronted Ron with his transgressions, and owled her in-laws a letter explaining her decision along with copies of the incriminating photos. The result was a howler from his mother that would have made a tussle with the whomping willow look like a casual altercation. At first, he'd begged and pleaded with her, then shouted and railed at her, but Hermione had given him a look of such absolute disappointment, that he'd gone quiet and watched as she walked out the door and then out of his life. He knew better than to follow her. She was an uncanny shot with the odd hex.

That had been some time ago, and the weeks that followed had been peppered with his attempts to reconcile. She'd considered it, briefly, but she just couldn't bring herself to go back to that life knowing there would always be a question hanging over her head every time he left. Instead, she'd buried herself in her work and her charities with none the wiser to the discontent that had pervaded her life. A trusted few knew what had happened, even more suspected, but it had not become public knowledge until tonight.

Hermione gingerly lifted the fallboard and gazed at the ivory keys with rapt fascination. She'd never played on a grand before, much less anything of this magnitude, and she had a fine appreciation for the instrument before her. She expected the sound would be richer, deeper, and more resonant in comparison to the smaller, upright version she had at home. She brushed the fingers of her right hand over the tops of the keys, her touch as gentle as a lover's caress before she pressed down, delighting in the pure, clean sound, perfectly in tune. No longer able to resist the temptation, she lifted her hands and began to play a piece she'd learned shortly after the last battle, noting with care and an experienced ear that this was no pauper's piano. She could tell in an instant that, from where she sat, the piano had been placed so that the dulcet sounds emanating from beneath the top board were amplified by the flawless acoustics of the room.

Her breathing even, her fingers light, she closed her eyes as she shifted the pedals and concentrated on the sounds that resonated through every fibre of her being. Though a modern piece, it was strongly reminiscent of Beethoven's classical genius. She had always found the piece calming, the notes melancholy, triumphant, impassioned, and dramatic, all of which seemed suited to her mood after the night's events thus far. Her revelations of thought and subsequent musings had rattled her perceptions of all she had come to believe, and for once, rather than be consumed by trying to reconcile past and present, she let the music speak for her. She lost herself in the rhythm and flow of the notes, finding release for her regret and dismay. For a few brief minutes, she felt lifted, cleansed, and at peace, her body swaying to the ebb and flow of musical consonance that swept away her confusion and mortification.

"Well, well, Ms Weasley, you _are_ full of surprises."

With a start, her hands came down on the final notes of the piece with a discordant twang that was at odds with the smooth, rich voice that could only belong to the lord of the manor. Her heart suddenly began hammering against her chest as she snatched her hands away from the keys. The aristocratic tones of that voice always sent stabs of apprehension splintering through her, visions of his dark countenance during the war flickering through her mind, despite his recent affectations. He had been compelling, formidable, and darkly alluring. Nothing about him had changed in that respect. He still carried that air of arrogance and grace that reminded her of a prowling panther; slow, calculated, intended to inspire agitation and discomfiture in his prey.

Taking a breath, she drew herself up and turned to face the Malfoy patriarch, her expression one of resolute civility. Though her more recent interactions with him since that day had bordered on unusually pleasant, she still found his presence highly unnerving. He seemed to turn up no matter where she was working, whether it was related to her job or her advocacy for the welfare of the less fortunate. It had been often enough in the past months that she no longer questioned his presence in her circles, but the frequency of more recent encounters still managed to set her on edge.

"My apologies, Mr Malfoy, for taking liberties with your piano. I was unable to resist the lure of such a beautiful instrument."

The corner of his mouth turned up, his amusement apparent in the tone of his voice. "Clearly," he replied. "Although not as magnificent as its predecessor, it does seem to suit the space adequately."

Hermione dipped her head in agreement before she caught onto the entirety of his sentence. "Its predecessor?"

"Hmm, yes."

He stepped away from the door and moved toward her. She realised then that he must have been standing there for several minutes listening to her play. It took every ounce of willpower she had to keep her breathing steady as he swept by her, her nostrils flaring as the scent of him pervaded her senses. It was a scent she'd come to find disconcertingly familiar, distinctive and heady, but also appealing on a primal level she didn't quite understand.

He paused at the edge of the piano, running one gloved hand along the polished edge before turning to face her, his grey eyes sweeping over her in one all-encompassing appraisal.

She mimicked the action. Though she had seen him at the forefront of his guests several times that evening, she'd scarcely acknowledged his presence. His staff for the evening had taken care of the managerial aspects of the benefit, and aside from her attempts to avoid his gaze during her speech, she hadn't taken the time to do more than glance his way with a nod. Now that he was before her, she took note that the near white shade of his platinum blond hair shone gold in the flicker of firelight, the loose strands stark against the inky black of his dress robes. Twin serpents flashed with a metallic sheen on his lapels, bright against the darkness that defined them, the flickering shadows seeming to give them life. "It seems Narcissa took a liking to the former occupant of this space and had it transferred to her manor in Florence."

"I had noticed her absence during tonight's event. I thought perhaps she might have taken ill."

Lucius made a noncommittal sound deep in his throat, raising his cane so that the serpent's head was eye level with him. He turned it as if he were examining it while he considered his next response. "You're an astute, young lady, are you not? Tell me, Ms Weasley, when was the last time you saw Narcissa by my side?"

"The Minister's Ball, several months ago..." Understanding dawned in a flash of insight. "Oh, you mean you're no longer...?" Well, that explained the profusion of single witches she'd noticed at this particular benefit.

"Quite. Though we do refrain from airing our domestic grievances in public."

Hermione flushed in embarrassment, dropping her eyes for a moment before lifting her chin, her brown eyes snapping with her resentment as she looked back at him.

"As do I, generally. My apologies for the unfortunate spectacle I made of myself in your home this evening, Mr Malfoy," she replied stiffly, trying her best to sound regretful, but unable to fully suppress the hint of sarcasm in her tone. "You must surely realise it was not my intention to allow the situation to develop in the first place."

Placing the tip of his cane back on the floor, Lucius turned pale grey eyes back to her, one corner of his mouth tilting up at her show of forced propriety.

"Ms Weasley-"

"Please, stop calling me that," she interrupted with a negatory gesture. "I think tonight's performance has made it abundantly clear to all that I don't plan for it to remain my name much longer."

He turned his head slightly, his brow tilting slightly upward at her pronouncement. "Miss... _Granger_ , then..."

Her maiden name on his lips was an evocative purr that made her brow furrow briefly in confusion. Gone was the hint of distaste that seemed to curl around the edge of her married name. But surely she had imagined that sudden change in his tone, and as quickly as it registered, she dismissed it. This man, former Death Eater and pureblood supremacist, would hardly find a muggleborn witch half his age worthy of his time and attention in _that_ respect, she was sure, reformed or not. Although, she was more than a little startled that _her_ mind had even entertained the thought of that unlikely tryst. She really needed that holiday, and maybe a good lay. The frustrations and tension of the past few weeks were starting to affect her sensibilities, and she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that pretty much _any_ handsome wizard would do...and Lucius was undeniably handsome.

Hermione cleared her throat, praying her thoughts were not completely transparent. "If you please, however, I do have a first name, if you are so inclined to use it, Mr Malfoy." She rose from the bench, the folds of her dress falling in crimson cascades around her ankles. Taking her champagne glass in hand, she inclined her head to bid him farewell. "If you will excuse me, I believe I have had sufficient time for my 'reprieve.' Please, thank Draco for his kindness this evening."

She made to turn away, but a flash of silver and the swift arc of a serpent headed cane startled her, preventing her from making her escape. She looked to Lucius, her own brow now raised in question.

Cool, grey eyes met warm, honey brown, and for an instant, Hermione felt a rising tension between them. He seemed unperturbed by the fact that he was essentially keeping her from leaving. "Rushing off so soon?"

"I had thought my presence here tolerable, at best." A wry smile twisted her lips.

"Are we so disagreeable, Miss Granger?" Lucius lowered the cane and stepped toward her, closing the brief distance between them until he was looking down at her.

Effectively caught between the piano and Lucius, Hermione found herself suddenly overwhelmed by his presence. Apprehension warred with appetence as his nearness caused a flush of heat to dance across her skin. What in Merlin's name was wrong with her? "What is it you're trying to do, Mr Malfoy?" she breathed.

He lifted a hand toward her, gloved fingertips grazing lightly over her bare shoulder and down to her elbow, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "I'm giving you something to think about, Miss Granger," he replied. "And you will." The surety in his voice was a silken promise as he held her gaze with his own.

Hermione's lips parted in surprise at his words, a flush of colour spreading over her cheeks and down her chest as she tore her eyes away from the hypnotic depths of his grey eyes. She realised then that he had left her only two options. She could choose to meet him on equal footing and take him up on his implied invitation, or she could attempt to maintain her dignity while choosing to take the safe route and hope to depart unscathed. Either option would be a foolish gamble, each rife with the possibility of an unforeseeable regret. Taking a sip of champagne to calm her nerves, she returned his gaze steadily.

"You're an arrogant arse, Mr Malfoy."

.

.

 **The piece Hermione plays is called "Beethoven's Silence" by Ernesto** **Cortázar II, a lovely instrumental piece. I hope the fact that I know squat about pianos isn't too glaringly obvious, I did do some minor research.**

 **Chapter 3 has already been started and should be interesting as Hermione tries to figure out how to come to terms with what's happening and her choices. Will she stay and regret not leaving, or leave and regret not staying?**

 **Many apologies for the long delay on this one. I'm a notoriously slow writer to begin with, but add in that I write and beta in the Labyrinth fandom, as well as all the crazy huge projects that have been going on nonstop at home since August, and it's been tough trying to keep up. I also find that, like Jareth, writing Lucius is a bit daunting, but I hope to warm into it and things will improve.**

 **Pleasant Journeys,**

 **~*~ Lumionessence**

 _Chapter posted 12/8/17_


	3. Incendiary Madness

**Oh, look at that, it's only been, umm, okay forever. In my defense, I was working two jobs 7 days a week for a little bit, and home life has continued non-stop.**

 **So, I _may_ _or may not_ have tweaked the canon just a teensy bit, please don't hate me for that.**

 **As always, concrit is kindly received if kindly given and a lovely and heartfelt thank you to everyone who has followed so far.**

 **Expect tweaks and polishes after posting because, for some reason, that's only when I notice the glaring mistakes and messed up transitions. *lol***

.

.

Chapter 3: "Incendiary Madness"

 _"And one day she discovered  
that she was fierce,  
and strong, and full of fire,  
and that not even she  
could hold herself back  
because her passion  
burned brighter than her fears."_

– Mark Anthony

Lucius chuckled, the sound a pleasant rumble that set her synapses firing as he reached over to remove the champagne flute from her fingers. "Language, Miss Granger. It's quite unbecoming."

Hermione might have had a retort, but it died on her lips when his fingers brushed delicately over hers. She felt a catalyst of reactions sweep through her, every nerve alight with sudden tension as her instincts to fight or flee awakened within her. Or perhaps it was something else, if only she could analyse it more closely, but _he_ was too close, her body responding to his nearness with an awareness that was more primal than conscious. It was too much to hope that the slight tremor that shook her went unnoticed, and by the way those grey eyes focused on her, she knew he had.

One pale brow rose slowly as Lucius looked down at her, the intensity of his gaze doing little to negate the rush of adrenaline she was trying to suppress. She stood motionless, closing her eyes against the sight of him, knowing that if she met his gaze, he would see beyond doubt the turmoil she was struggling with. She felt him shift, heard the gentle click of the flute as he set it on top of the piano, and then the press of his gloved fingers beneath her chin as he raised her face up, his thumb lightly brushing against her cheek. It was all she could do not to react, the simple gesture so intimate that she found herself yearning to lean into his touch. The reality of her thoughts made her eyes snap open, and she suddenly found herself helplessly gazing into the abyss that was Lucius Malfoy's silver countenance.

Merlin, the man was undeniably attractive. How, in all nine hells, could a wizard be so bloody _attractive?_ She prayed Legilimency was not among his repertoire of magical talents because her mind was at war with the reactions he was eliciting from her body at a simple _touch_ , not caring that this was Lucius Malfoy, former Dark wizard, Death Eater, a man who had once supported the extermination of her kind. She should be trying to pull away, to leave, to escape the absurdity of this situation and put kilometres of distance between them. But then she recalled all of their recent encounters, and despite her ingrained fears, she felt utterly enthralled by the power and sheer masculinity he exuded. And then there was her _curiosity_.

"Do you still fear me, Miss Granger?"

The question was spoken almost quietly, a silken whisper of words that made her blink, the confusion in her dark chestnut eyes flickering with an emotion akin to surprise. He wouldn't need Legilimency to read her thoughts, she thought faintly, as he was surely able to read the conflict in her eyes. He tilted his head slightly to the side, holding her gaze as if he were studying her response to him.

The silence between them stretched as he awaited her answer, a curious expression of mild concern gracing his aristocratic features, an appearance that was at odds with the haughty and cavalier personality he usually evinced. Rather than alleviate her emotions, it only served to heighten them to the point where she could scarcely breathe. She needed to get a handle on herself. She was a Gryffindor, was she not? Brave in the face of all adversity, even her own.

"Of course not," she lied, dropping her eyes to break the tension. But it was only half a lie, and she turned her face to the side, staring at the flames dancing in the hearth as she attempted to calm her racing heart. "But...I don't trust you," she added. "You seem to forget that I have very good reason not to and that you have placed me at a distinct disadvantage, entrapping me this way. Though to what purpose, I am uncertain."

The corners of his mouth twitched slightly before he replied. "Surely you don't believe I have dreamed up some nefarious purpose for putting you at said disadvantage?" He took her silence for affirmation and gave a dark chuckle. "I don't know whether I should be flattered or appalled. Do you truly think so little of me? And I had thought we were making such marvellous progress."

Hermione took a deep breath to steady her nerves as Lucius turned away from her toward a large, ornate cabinet. Upon opening, it revealed itself to be a cleverly constructed drinks cabinet with a diverse array of crystal cut bottles containing a multitude of different coloured spirits. Setting out a tumbler, he selected a bottle and pulled the stopper, pouring a generous amount of the reddish-hued liquid into a glass with a precision borne of long practise. He caught her eyes in the reflection of the mirrored backdrop as he stoppered the bottle.

He turned back to face her, taking a slow sip of his drink as he noted her discomfiture, evident in the way she held herself, her wand hand occasionally flexing in response to her agitation. "Tell me, Miss Granger, why is it you came here tonight?"

Hermione's hands stilled as she stared at him, clearly wondering if he'd gone daft. "You invited me. Surely, you remember?"

Again, the brow arched, amusement plain in his voice. "Yes, a pretty speech, designed to inspire compassion and create an opportunity to pay penance through acts of generosity. It was _quite_ moving."

Immediately, Hermione's cheeks flushed. She knew he was baiting her, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep from snapping at him. She'd already made a fool of herself once tonight; she'd be damned if she disgraced herself twice in the same night. "Your arrogance knows absolutely no bounds, does it, Mr Malfoy?"

"It has nothing to do with arrogance, my dear. Please, sit, and I will explain." He made a grand gesture toward the piano bench with a wave of his hand. "It is not my wish to have you in the dark on this. However, it will require a bit of...faith."

Hermione tentatively sat back down on the bench, her curiosity piqued in spite of herself. Lucius set his drink down and began to remove his outer dress robe, laying it neatly along the back of a nearby chair followed by his gloves. Dressed in a dark grey waistcoat over a white dress shirt, he created a striking image of sartorial elegance before he reached up to loosen the emerald coloured silk cravat at his neck, candlelight winking off the polished silver of his family ring. Pausing to retrieve his drink, he moved to sit beside her, placing the tumbler and his cane along the front of the music rack.

Biting her tongue, she turned to face him, and he held her dark gaze with his own as he methodically began to loosen his cuffs, rolling them partway up his forearms. Smirking at the burning curiosity in her eyes, he let his fingers drift over the ivory keys before him. After a moment, he began to play a piece she was unfamiliar with, the opening notes heralding the piece denoting a deep and profound sadness, the emotion they evoked causing her to feel as if her very heart were breaking right from the start. The notes were regretful, sonorous, soulful, and just when she thought she could bear it no more, the music began to swell, the rising crescendo filling the room with a dramatic sense of hope, and she felt as if the very music itself were seeking redemption from some unknowable transgression.

It was beautiful and spoke to her in such a way that she could hardly believe that something so exquisite could be played by a wizard such as the one beside her. She couldn't help the slight smile that ghosted over her lips as she watched him play, his expression giving nothing away but the intensity of his focus. Ron would never have attempted to learn the piano, and even if he'd tried, he'd likely have bumbled anything he attempted. It took a certain amount of grace and was something she found she could admire and appreciate in this wizard. That the piano was not merely an expensive show of wealth even went a little way toward lessening her previously disdainful notions about Malfoy fortunes.

As she watched the way his fingers moved over the keys, she realised there was a kind of reverence in the way he played, and suddenly she knew, understanding that this was one of his great pleasures, and likely the reason Narcissa had taken its predecessor, merely to spite him. Glancing around the room once more, she suddenly found herself wondering if he was proficient with any of the other instruments housed within the Music Room, and as her eyes were drawn back to his hands, mesmerised by the sheer elegance of their movement, the thought that wondered what _else_ he was proficient at came unbidden and she nearly blushed, berating herself for even thinking it.

His keen eyes observing the faint colour that suffused her cheeks, Lucius leaned close to her, his voice low as he spoke. "I have a vision for the future and you, my dear, are integral to the master plan," he finally revealed. He paused then, watching her expression as he let that sink in, waiting to see if she would begin voicing her objections before she even knew why she would be opposed to it, but a brief appraisal showed she was patiently waiting for him to continue. After a moment, as he focused on modulating the keystrokes, he continued. "Imagine, if you will, the Gryffindor princess, brightest witch of her age, and celebrated war heroine on the arm of a well-known and reformed Death Eater. It would be the crowning glory of my achievements."

As his words sank in, Hermione's eyes widened, not with fear, but for the sheer audacity of his proposal. She kept her composure as she saw him watching her, giving little else away as he waited to see how she would respond. It took her a moment to find her voice. Trust he could break the mood he set forth by speaking so brazenly. "Sounds positively Machiavellian when you say it like that."

Lucius smirked. "Yes, a real-life beauty and the beast."

Hermione hummed, pretending to think about the implications of that analogy. "And tell me, Mr Malfoy, why would such a vision interest me? What makes you think that I would be amenable to such an idea?" she asked, her tone even as her eyes shifted from his hands to his face.

He didn't respond right away, and she studied him in the glow of the candlelight, watching the way it danced over his patrician features, shadowed where the pale cascade of his hair fell over his shoulders. He allowed the music to draw to a close before he turned slightly to face her again. "Whether you realise it or not, Miss Granger, we share a similar vision. We are not so different, you and I."

Hermione barely suppressed her scoff of disbelief. "Aren't we? Your vision sounds like it goes against every one of my moral principles."

Again, that dark chuckle as he rose smoothly from the bench, grasping his cane in one hand and his drink in the other. He leaned down behind her, his hair falling in a silken shroud over her bare shoulder. There was something distinctly sensual in the way it caressed her skin and coupled with the masculine scent of his cologne and the spiciness of the firewhisky on his breath, she felt the unmistakable warmth of arousal unfurling within her. She closed her eyes and swallowed as his voice purred in her ear, velvety soft as he spoke, his tone low, deep, seductive even. It seemed to reach deep inside of her, vibrating against her insides until her breath caught, despite the words he uttered with devastating clarity.

"Morals, Miss Granger? Morals are so easily cast aside when the need arises, wouldn't you say?" He resumed standing, the brush of his hair sliding away from her shoulder leaving a trail of chills racing down her spine. "I daresay you've put your own values to the test, walked that fine line between darkness and light, all while telling yourself that the end justified the means. Were you not just as willing to set aside rules—your beliefs, even—to achieve your own ends for no other reason than because it was for the 'greater good?'"

She refused to answer. Saying yes would imply he was correct in his assumption, but if she said no, she would be caught out in a lie. Finally, she offered a small concession. "'All's fair in love and war,' Mr Malfoy."

"Ah, yes, _love_ and war..."

Hermione reached for her champagne, taking a small sip to wet a mouth gone dry at the way he emphasised her words.

Amused by her discomfort, Lucius took a sip of his own drink and pressed on. "How do you suppose your supporters, your...friends, would view such a liaison?"

"To be truthful, they'd think I'd lost my mind," she muttered, hardly believing she was actually considering the merits of his proposition.

In a new world bent on eradicating past prejudices, it was a worthy idea, but...from Lucius Malfoy? The most outspoken and prejudiced bigot of them all? The sheer brilliance behind the notion was enough to garner her grudging respect. It would indeed propel them both into the spotlight as Wizarding Britain's least likely couple to put aside old hatreds and usher forth a new age of tolerance. That alone would cause the populace to sit up and take notice, from _both_ sides of the fence.

He nearly smiled as he saw the implications of his proposal dawn in those dark chestnut eyes. "Hmm, perhaps."

Hermione turned so she could face him straight on, her eyes narrowing slightly as she observed his reaction to her next question. "So, you parade me around as your what? Trophy?"

One side of his mouth quirked upward at her query. "Hardly. It would be detrimental to us both if we were unmatched in other areas. I think you will find we share a fair amount of interests, my dear."

She very nearly scoffed. "Such as? Please, don't tell me you think a few charity events constitutes a shared vision."

Lucius didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved closer to the fireplace, taking a sip of his firewhisky as he looked into the flames. His lean figure was bathed in the golden glow of the fire, and she had a bizarre impression of light attempting to devour the shadows surrounding him. "Think carefully, Miss Granger, in all the times we've crossed each other's paths, have you never wondered why each time we met, no matter how brief, I would take the time to ensure we spoke? Never been one thing, no matter how subtle, that piqued your interest?"

She looked at him sharply. Truth be told, there'd been several times he seemed to show an unusual interest in conversing with her, oft times about mundane subjects, but more recently, things of a more interesting nature that she wouldn't mind pursuing. In fact, she'd come to look forward to those snippets of conversation, despite her feelings against their originator, particularly that one instance...

 _She'd been perusing the new arrivals at Flourish and Blott's, a volume on the treatises of magical lore and its impact on Muggle history in her hands. She couldn't say why, but she'd sensed his presence before she saw him, like a prickling of the hairs along the back of the neck before a thunderstorm. Before she realised what she was doing, she had turned, raising her head to glance at the entrance. He'd swept into the shop barely a moment later, a small house-elf on his heels. He paused briefly in the doorway, surveying the shop with an air of calculated appraisal born of one used to scouting for strategic advantages._

 _He caught her glance almost immediately, briefly meeting her eyes with little more than a raised brow before seeming to dismiss her presence entirely as he turned to acknowledge the manager who shuffled up to greet him. They moved off toward the back of the shop, voices low as they carried on with their business._

 _Her eyes returned to the book in her hands, but her awareness of his movements left her feeling a curious aura of anticipation. Her concentration shattered, she placed the book back on the shelf and continued perusing, caressing the spines of the volumes with reverent fingers as she sought for something else to catch her interest and take her mind off the fact he was in the building._ _She supposed she should leave, but her curiosity burned far too brightly._

 _Before long, she found herself buried in the more obscure section of the shop, her fingers ghosting over a title on the origins of magic. Pulling it down, she scanned the contents, fascinated by the way the author drew parallels between the genuine magic of the wizarding world and the magic that was initially discovered and cultivated by ancient Mugglekind. She snorted at that terminology but had already decided to purchase the book for further analysis when a shadow fell over her shoulder._

 _She gasped, spinning around in surprise. She held her breath as the narrow aisle seemed to darken and shrink further._ _His eyes flicked down to the volume in her hands._

 _"A curious choice, Ms Weasley."_

 _Drawing up her courage, she raised her eyes to his, a challenge hidden in the honey brown depths of her eyes. "Oh? Why is that?"_

 _"Curious, because the magic of the Old World is little more than the raw, unchannelled energies felt by our ancestors."_

 _Hermione scoffed. "_ Our _ancestors? Mr Malfoy, are you actually claiming descendancy from lowly muggles?"_

 _He smirked, raising his eyes above her head as he scanned the titles on the shelf. He stepped closer to her, engulfing her in the deep, rich scent of his robes as he reached over her to pull a book from the shelf above her head._

 _"I think you'll find this title more worthy of your keen intellect."_

 _Taking the book, she glanced at the title. "The Origins of Magic: An Accounting of Magical Ancestry." She gave him a shrewd glance. "Please tell me this isn't about pureblood precepts."_

 _"If you are so keen to understand how magic and blood status go hand in hand, one should, perhaps, be open to understanding magical inheritance, don't you think, Ms Weasley?"_

 _Hermione couldn't help rolling her eyes. "It's not that I'm not open to understanding it, Mr Malfoy. It's the notion that only pureblooded individuals have the right to hold the majority of magical inheritance in their veins. If such were the case, then the most powerful wizards and witches in our world could only_ be _purebloods._ _Forgive me for saying so, but in my limited lifetime, some of the strongest magical blood has actually been observed in_ half- _bloods, lending credence to the theory of hybridisation."_

 _He smirked, one eyebrow arching. "Muggles and their science. Science, for all its technicalities, cannot unravel the mysteries of magic. There is a fine line between magic and blood status, Ms Weasley. Perhaps it's something more." Lucius leaned closer to her, delighting in the shiver she tried to suppress as he whispered in her ear._

 _"Read the book."_

 _And with that, he turned on his heel and swept away from her, barking a command to the small house elf who staggered beneath the weight of a stack of books nearly as tall as it was. She met the eye of the elf, who gave her a small wink as it followed its master out of the shop._

She looked at him now, steadying her resolve as she prepared to poke the proverbial beast, but it was, perhaps, the most crucial test he had to justify. "I'll concede your point. However, I'm hardly the type of witch who's naïve enough to believe you seek anything more than garnering public support by consorting with a _mudblood_."

Lucius sniffed disdainfully, turning back to face her. "Regretfully, that is a burden we both must bear, marked as we are. Abhorrent reminders of the parts we had little choice but to play."

Hermione snorted in disbelief. "You honestly expect me to believe that tripe?"

She wondered if, perhaps, she'd goaded him too far when she saw the white-knuckled grasp Lucius had on his glass, his face set like chiselled stone. He turned swiftly away from her, and she jumped, startled by the sound of glass shattering against marble, the fire momentarily billowing up in a fiery display of unrestrained fury before settling back into its previously cheerful blaze.

"Do you believe I _enjoyed_ watching you writhe on my drawing room floor while my deranged sister-in-law carved into your flesh? You, a helpless young girl, and I, outnumbered and wandless by the Dark Lord's own hand—do you think I _enjoyed_ watching him disgrace my home!" He didn't shout, but the force in the sudden, barely contained fury of his voice left her no doubt as to his feelings on the subject. Lucius leaned forward, bracing himself against the mantle, his head bowed toward the hearth.

Hermione rose from the bench and approached him cautiously, one hand raised as if to touch him. Part of her remained wary and somewhat fearful, knowing that she had purposely provoked him, but there was something in his posture, an unconscious hunching between his shoulder blades that spoke of a raw agony that was more evident in the whites of his knuckles where they attempted to crush the marble mantle in his grip.

"Lucius?" she questioned softly, his given name falling effortlessly from her lips even as she questioned her reasons for using it. But compassion was ever a deep part of her psyche, a complementary counterpoint to the brash courage so often evinced during the war. She let her hand come to rest on his shoulder, a gentle brush of her fingers against the expensive fabric of his shirt. She felt the tautness of his muscles beneath her hand, and she was torn between wanting to offer him comfort and stepping away in case he turned on her. Filled with indecision, she felt him take a breath, and so she simply remained as she was, waiting.

"Did it never occur to you that we were the only ones...the _only_ ones, Miss Granger...who stood in opposition of the Dark Lord that day? Draco _could_ have given away Mr Potter. We could clearly see he was the Boy Who Lived, but he refused. In fact, if not for my _dear_ ," he sneered the word, "sister-in-law's timely observation of the sword, he could very likely have died that fateful day. And later, it was Narcissa's own wilful defiance that ensured Potter had the opportunity to strike later. It is easy to forget those moments of deception when it is easier still to condemn every unfortunate soul that bore the Dark Mark."

"But...Severus?"

"Wasn't there, but rest assured, if he had been, he would not have betrayed our true allegiances any more openly than we did. We all had our parts to play. It was a finely-honed edge to walk, and unlike him, _we_ didn't have the sanction of the Order to protect us."

Lucius straightened, his hand relaxing as it dropped from the mantle. Her own hand fell away from him as he turned to face her, his cool mask of superiority back in place but for the minute darkening of his eyes, the only indication of the strength of his emotions. "We were never more grateful that Potter saw sense enough to plead our case before the Wizengamot. How much do you believe blood status mattered to us then, when veritaserum corroborated by Legilimency could not hold sway enough to prove our lack of fidelity to the Dark Lord? When every name I gave up to the Aurors in good faith did little to sway my sentencing?"

Unable to answer, she shook her head, and he sighed, reaching for her right hand and extending it toward him. "You showed me what true conviction looks like that day," he said gently, and her breath hitched as he began to slowly roll down the crimson glove that encased her arm. Little by little, the faint, silvery scars were revealed, and as he pulled the glove completely away, she stared at him in consternation. Lucius rubbed his thumb gently up the inside of her forearm, the pad of his thumb making her arm break out in goosebumps as it ran over the barely-there ridges of her scars.

"Don't," she whispered, unable to hide the anxiety in her voice as she pulled her arm away, cradling it close to her body.

Lucius's jaw hardened, his hand closing into a fist around the crimson glove he still held, but his eyes were looking far away, and she knew he had not yet come to the conclusion of his story. "The Dark Lord was displeased when he appeared that day. To have had the boy so close and yet still escape the clutches of his most loyal followers..." he shook his head. "Precious few of those present survived his wrath, and of those that did…" he did not elaborate, but his grey eyes darkened further, haunted by memory, and Hermione could only imagine the horrors the survivors must have suffered at their expense.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise..." she murmured.

His eyes refocused on her, now a dark stormy grey, and he seemed to draw himself up, the imposing and seemingly unflappable mask she was used to seeing falling back into place. "Nor could you have. It is of little consequence now. While I still hold many of my beliefs, I am not incapable of seeing past them, or have I not made that quite clear these past years?"

"I... always assumed you were just seeking to regain your social status, nothing more," she admitted. "In fact, I'm still not certain this isn't just an elaborate ruse to bring about a means to an eventual end."

Lucius took her confession in stride; it was nothing less than he'd expected. "Assumptions are almost as dangerous as deceit, Miss Granger. As I stated previously, my proposal would require a bit of faith."

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Hermione thought. Could she have faith in this silver-tongued serpent? Granted, the whole affair had merit, but what exactly would he be expecting of her to achieve it?

"If I agree to this hare-brained scheme you've dreamed up—which is completely mental by the way—what exactly is the role you expect me to play? The good acquaintance to be seen in public with, wining and dining among the Wizarding world's most elite to the shabbiest orphanages inhabited by the remnants of the war's most oppressed?"

"Don't be so obtuse, Miss Granger, it is beneath you," he criticised. "To be clear, I desire more than social obligations from you, quite more indeed." His eyes swept down her body, and she felt a flush of heat prickle her skin as those grey eyes lingered on the most revealing aspects of her dress, leaving little doubt as to his meaning.

Hermione swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "Are you always so forward with your intentions?"

"I've found it best to always be very clear about what my expectations are when entering into any arrangement, and in this case, I believe the benefits would be _mutually_ satisfying."

Sweet Merlin, the man was insufferable. Double entendre aside, he was also not wrong. Despite his sordid past, he was willing to overlook their differences to promote a vision she only dreamed about: the breaking down of blood superiority to give every person of magical inheritance a fair chance, regardless of blood status. Doing so would go far in redeeming the Malfoy name in public opinion, paving the way for its eventual return to the status quo. It could also potentially put the Malfoy fortunes at her fingertips when it came to her charity work. Once the shock of their union subsided, they could very well become an iconic symbol of the times, but it just seemed so _gauche_. Her thoughts must have translated to her expression because his next words took her entirely by surprise.

"I assure you, Miss Granger, I can be a very generous lover, and I would treat you with the utmost respect a witch of your calibre deserves."

To say she was stunned by his words would have been a gross understatement. "How do you even know I can reciprocate in that fashion, Mr Malfoy? You don't even really know me."

"I believe that's the point, my dear, to get to know you very well indeed," he smirked. This time she did blush, disconcerted by the way he was looking so calmly at her, but he didn't relent. "Tell me, Miss Granger, have you ever felt passion?"

Surprised by the question, Hermione returned his gaze steadily, choosing her words carefully. "Of course, I have. I've felt passion for many things. Learning, books, my work."

One pale brow arched, a slight smile gracing his lips at her deliberate avoidance of the heart of the question. " _Real_ passion, Miss Granger, the kind that makes your toes curl and sets your blood on fire."

She could barely contain her derision. "There's no such thing as that kind of passion. It's a pretty lie made up by lonely hearts seeking a fairy-tale romance."

"Is it?" He seemed amused by the thought. "Then you have never experienced _true_ passion, my dear." He lifted a hand to her slowly, the tips of his fingers skimming lightly against her cheek. "Never felt your blood burn as it courses through your veins," pressed those same fingers beneath her chin as his thumb swept over her bottom lip, "or the sweet ache of dying as your soul catches fire from one moment of pure, unadulterated…ecstasy."

Hermione would have scoffed, but one look at the intensity of his eyes caused her to rein back her disbelief. Arousal was a given, she could get aroused, felt it now even, but passion such as the kind he was proclaiming was pure fantasy; it didn't exist.

Sensing her disbelief, Lucius dropped his hand and slowly circled her, the heat of his gaze as it roamed over her body causing a tremor of doubt to creep up her spine. He came to a stop behind her, and she felt a thrill of anticipation coupled with trepidation well up inside of her. She remained still, closing her eyes and swallowing as she fought down the apprehension overtaking her senses, struggling for a calm that was dancing just out of reach. And then she felt the slide of his hands over the smooth satin of her dress as he grasped her around the waist, his fingers splaying over her stomach as he gently coaxed her to relax against him. The heat from his hands was palpable, searing her flesh through the thin fabric of her dress.

He bent his head toward her, his silken hair cascading over her shoulder as she felt the heat of his lips press against her skin. "I can show you such passion," he whispered, his voice sliding like rough velvet over her senses. "I can make your blood burn as it surges through your veins," the warmth of his breath tickled the fine hairs of her neck, causing her to shiver, "and set your very soul ablaze." A final, tantalising brush of his lips against her ear.

Hermione's breath caught, her heart stuttering in her chest, and for one dizzying moment, she thought she might stop breathing altogether. She clutched his arm tightly to steady herself, the thrill of the seductive promise falling from those sensual lips causing a frisson of desire to spread rapidly through her body. If she didn't know better, she'd say he'd made her very soul shudder. Perhaps he was right, maybe all it would take was one sinful dance to prove to her that such notions as passion were not merely whims of infatuated fantasy. She'd certainly never been seduced in such a fashion, and the alarming effect of his words on her psyche suddenly had her tingling with a fierce need to know.

She turned her head toward him, her eyes searching his, and then she nodded, the movement slight, but it was enough. He grasped her ungloved hand, his eyes never leaving hers as he slowly raised it to his lips, pressing an intimate, open-mouthed kiss to the palm of her hand. Her lips parted as she watched him, overwhelmed by the sensuality of it, the slow burn in the pit of her stomach unfurling in a sweet, lustful ache that spread langorously throughout her body.

Emboldened by the action, she turned in his arms, her hands sliding over his chest, feeling the firmness of the muscle beneath them until her fingers twined around the nape of his neck, inviting him to lean into her as she pressed herself against him. He paused momentarily, his eyes like quicksilver as they fell from her eyes to her lips, and then he was pulling her more firmly against him, his mouth covering hers with a self-assured confidence and grace that left her feeling more than a little dazed.

Hermione's eyes fluttered shut as she surrendered herself to the sensation of his mouth on hers. The supple movement of his lips and the nip of his teeth coaxed her to open beneath him, and she parted her lips unreservedly, inviting him to take his first taste of her. The sinuous stroking and twining of his tongue against hers was exquisite, and she moaned softly as he deepened the kiss with a slow, leisurely precision that left her senses reeling. The taste of him was intoxicating, sultry, with just a hint of the firewhisky still on his tongue.

His hands had settled low against her hips, pulling her tightly against him, until she could feel the rigid length of him pressing against her belly. Something ignited deep within, liquid heat gathering between her thighs as a burning need unveiled itself. Sweet Merlin, she wanted—she needed—

A brief knock and a familiar voice interrupted them from the doorway.

"Father?"

Lucius's groan was nearly audible as Hermione startled and broke away with a gasp, but his eyes never left hers, his pupils wide and dark with suppressed lust. He smirked at the flush of embarrassment that crept over her features as she struggled for breath, her own eyes wide with dismay.

"Yes, Draco?" Lucius's voice was surprisingly steady, but there was a hint of displeasure in his tone, and the thumb caressing her jawline suggested he'd rather be finishing what they'd started.

Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Forgive the intrusion, Father, but the Minister was hoping to have some words with you before he departed for the evening."

She could see the frustration evident in Lucius's eyes, but then he closed them and took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. When he opened them, he was once more his usual, impassive self, but his eyes betrayed his regret.

"Very well, Draco. Tell him I will be along momentarily. Please escort Miss Granger back to our guests."

"Yes, father."

She began to turn away from him, but he held her fast, and she raised her eyes to look at him, questioning as he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her knuckles before he spoke.

"You will stay at the manor tonight."

It was neither question nor command, merely a statement of fact. Hermione's eyes widened fractionally before she nodded, and he released her. Retrieving her glove, she joined Draco at the door, pausing briefly to look back at him.

Lucius was facing the hearth with his hands behind his back, his expression one of someone who was deep in thought.

.

.

 **Was that a bucket of cold water? Why, yes, yes, I think it was. Next up, some more revelations and a night in the manor with Lucius. (Ooooh!)**

 **I hope you enjoyed this crazy long chapter. If you have flames, be gentle, I never claimed to be a good writer. Passable, maybe. I'm working on it! :)**

 **~*~ Lumionessence**

* * *

 _Chapter posted 9/29/18_


End file.
